Against all better judgment, yesterday evening I had fast food (note the word “indulge” was not applied). And no, I couldn’t be contented to leave it at the base “meal”, I had dessert, too. And no2, it was NOT the particular fast-food chain whose name sounds like a Scottish version of a famous duck.
It was a COLOSSAL moment of weakness, brought on by a day of being down in the dumps. I didn’t want to make dinner, and some part of me probably wanted to wallow in my maudlin demeanor by punishing myself. “WOE IS MEEEEEEE…..”
Oh Lord, how I’ve paid for my transgressions. Wide awake all night, watching the cast of the moon* through the skylight saunter across the floor, as I ran back and forth between bed and sink to refill my water. I think I’m the envy of most dromedaries at this point.
This is not something I allow myself to do, generally, and now I know why.
Gut-wrenching (literally), brain-slowing, pain and discomfort.
Ow.
*bloat*
Hindsight truly is 20/20. The battery of questions and wisdom-laden insights that follow moments of weakness are a paltry spoonful of consolation in the face of a festering, industrial-sized, boiling vat of guilt (and pain. Did I mention the pain?)
“Why did I even DO that?”
“It wasn’t even satisfying”
“Should I go to emergency?”
“Is it too late to induce vomiting?”
and, of course:
“I will NEVER do that again!”
The sanctimonious convictions of a food hangover.
If nothing else, this was an interesting experiment, and spoke as a testament to my general food ideals. If it (eating fast food) hit me this hard, then it must mean that I’m doing okay as far as my general dietary consumption goes. You may now feel free to flip through my posts and call me a lying bastard: “Chocolate ganache? Deep-fried shrimp balls? Enough carbs to constipate the Republic of Belarus?” Well, yes.
Difference being, they are prepared with the most unprocessed ingredients possible. Usually organic, or sustainable, or at least the providers KNOW where the food comes from.
I’d like to say I have a smug feeling of satisfaction, but at the moment it could just be a stomach cramp.
*not exclusively true. I also watched reruns of “Diff’rent Strokes” online. As it turns out, the show really wasn’t very good. Sorry, Gary Coleman. I know it’s all you had.
oh i feel you're pain, i've done this before. it usually ends with me looking at my thighs in the mirror afterwards for a good 2 hours while muttering 'you bitch, you bitch'.
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